Sweet Mercy

by Ann Tatlock

  Well, it wasn’t going to be me. I waited. His lips moved slightly, as though he had something to say, but he didn’t say it. He didn’t need to. We had made our accusations and that was enough. His mouth became a small dead line, and then he turned and walked away.

  Finding Mother alone in her room that night, I broke down and cried at her knee. She listened to my sorrow as she stroked my hair. She crooned, “I know, darling, I know,” as I spilled my story into her lap. When I finished, she didn’t bother offering empty assurances about other fish in the sea. She simply sang the song she used to sing to me when I was a child.

  Hush-a-bye, don’t you cry,

  Go to sleepy little baby.

  When you wake, you shall have

  All the pretty little horses.

  But instead of comforting me, the lullaby only left me crying all the more, and afterward when I went to bed, I scarcely slept at all.

  Chapter 21

  Never having had a beau before, neither had I ever lost one. I wondered at the paradox of my heart feeling enormously heavy even though a huge chunk had been torn from it. Of course I put on a happy face for the guests, welcoming them, smiling at them, cheerfully serving them breakfast or lunch while my insides churned with this unfamiliar grief.

  At the same time, my thoughts turned outward, and I gazed in curiosity at the people around me. I gazed at the men and women who passed me in the lodge or on the island, and I wondered, Have they known? Have they felt this too? It was almost inconceivable to think that every day somebody somewhere was losing someone she loved. And surely not just one somebody but many somebodies so that dozens, hundreds, maybe thousands of people were walking around with shattered hearts. I never knew the world held such sorrow, because it was a sorrow I had previously never known myself.

  Such were my thoughts at lunch on Wednesday noon when I was pouring coffee for a man who had been at the lodge for about a week. I had noticed him, but I hadn’t really seen him. It hadn’t occurred to me that he was always alone, as he was now, sitting in a secluded corner of the dining room, reading a folded newspaper even while he held his cup up to me for service. Because his left hand was hidden by the newspaper, I couldn’t see whether or not he wore a wedding ring.

  I tipped the spout of the enamelware pot over his cup. As the coffee neared the rim, I asked, “Can I get you anything else, sir?”

  He settled the cup in the saucer and looked at me. He was dressed in a gray double-breasted suit, the jacket buttoned in spite of the summer heat. The gray matched the color of his eyes, which were themselves two round pools of intensity in a hard-luck, leathery face. His cheeks and chin had been shaved raw; a small red nick glistened just above a scar that ran along his right jaw. He reminded me of Al Capone, with his fancy suit, his gray eyes, his slicked-back hair that had begun to recede, leaving his forehead wide and exposed. Except that his single scar wasn’t nearly as bad as the three that had earned Scarface his name.

  “No thanks, little lady,” he said. “I’m fine.”

  But I knew that he probably wasn’t fine, because he was alone. I knew that even as he sat there looking placid and satisfied, he was probably filled with a blistering sadness similar to mine. The thought of it brought tears to my eyes, but the man didn’t notice. He had already snapped open the paper, turned the page, and gone back to reading.

  As I stepped away from his table, Uncle Cy at the front desk motioned to me with a wave of his hand. I carried the coffeepot back to the buffet and wandered over to the desk.

  “This came for you this morning,” Uncle Cy said. He reached beneath the counter and pulled out a small white envelope.

  I took it, expecting it to be from Ariel up in St. Paul, but my name and the address of the lodge were written in an unfamiliar script. The envelope was postmarked St. Louis, but there was no return address. I ripped it open, wondering who in Missouri would write to me.

  Inside were two sheets of hotel stationery covered with small neat handwriting. My eyes fell to the signature at the bottom of the page. My heart pumped harder when I saw who it was from.

  Dear Eve, Marlene wrote,

  I am Mrs. James C. Fludd now and I’m proud and happy for it. Never in a million years did I dream I’d elope, but what an adventure it was! Maybe someday I’ll tell you all about it, if I ever get back to Mercy, which probably won’t be soon.

  In the meantime there are some things I want you to know. First of all, Jimmy spoke with Marcus on the telephone, so I know Marcus is sore at you for telling. But listen, maybe he’ll get over it, but if he doesn’t and he just stays angry, then I say you’re better off without him. I for one am glad you did it, Eve, even though at the time we left we didn’t know you’d already gone to Macnish. We figured you would and that was enough. It forced Jimmy’s hand. It got him out of that awful situation he was in with that old man of his. Never again will that dreadful man lay a hand on my beautiful Jimmy.

  We decided to run away together the day after I saw you last. We made up our minds and didn’t think twice. I went home and packed a suitcase, and in the middle of the night I snuck out and met Jimmy downtown by the movie theater. I jumped in his car and never looked back. We never will look back.

  In two days’ time we were married by a justice of the peace. I don’t have any pictures of the wedding, but it’s just as well because Jimmy still had two black eyes and a busted lip, and I don’t want to remember that. You’ll never believe it, but that JP had a bottle of champagne locked up in his closet. He said he always offers champagne when someone gets married, because he likes to propose a toast to the bride and groom. So think of it, Eve, I really did get to drink champagne on my wedding day!

  Jimmy and I are going to make a good life for ourselves, I just know it. Of course Mama and Daddy about had a fit when they got the news, but that’s a story for another time. They’ll get over it, especially once the grandkids come.

  So I wanted to write and tell you I’m happy and I hope someday you’re as happy as I am now. Our plan is for Jimmy to find a job, which best be soon, as we’ve about run out of the money we brought along. Once he gets a job we’ll find a place to live and I’ll set up housekeeping. I don’t know where we’re going to settle, but once we get there, I’ll write you again and let you know where we are.

  Your true friend,

  Marlene Fludd

  I folded the letter with a smile and slid it back in the envelope. With a deep sigh of relief, I gave a silent word of thanks that Marlene had written me, and more important, that she was happy. Somebody in the world was happy! And she wasn’t angry with me for what I’d done, but was glad for it. Finally some affirmation that I’d done the right thing.

  As I slipped the letter in the pocket of my skirt, the man in the double-breasted suit stepped out of the dining room, the newspaper tucked under his arm. He nodded curtly at Uncle Cy, who in turn greeted him with a perfunctory, “Good afternoon, Mr. Adele.”

  That was all that passed between them, and then the man stepped out to the porch where he settled in one of the rockers.

  I turned to Uncle Cy with a frown. “Uncle Cy, is that man here all by himself?”

  Uncle Cy paused in his shuffling of papers and said, “What man?”

  “The one who just passed by.”

  My uncle glanced toward the door as though an apparition of the man lingered there. “Mr. Adele? Hmm. Yes. He takes his vacation here every year.”

  He went back to shuffling papers—he was forming two neat piles on the front desk—but my curiosity wasn’t satisfied. “But, where’s his family? Isn’t he married?”

  Uncle Cy’s brows slid lower over his eyes, but he didn’t look up at me. “It’s not my job to know his personal business,” he said distractedly. “I just rent him a room.”

  “But—”

  “Don’t bother him, Eve. He’s here to rest and enjoy himself. Our job is to see to it our guests get what they need, not ply them with questions. Remember what I told you about r
ule number one?”

  I huffed out a sigh. “We don’t ask questions about the guests.” It was clear I wasn’t going to learn anything about Mr. Adele, or any of our other guests, for that matter. I was there to smile at them and change the sheets on their beds and pour their coffee, and that was all. All those things had been easier to do, and far more satisfying, when I hadn’t considered the state of their hearts.

  “Listen, Eve,” Uncle Cy said, “if you’re not too busy, would you mind carrying these invoices to Jones?”

  I took the pile of invoices. “He’s in your apartment?”

  A swift nod of Uncle Cy’s head sent me off in that direction.

  I got sidetracked by the phonograph in the ballroom. I don’t know why I was drawn to it, as I hadn’t played it since the night we came to the lodge. But now, in a fit of wistfulness, I wanted to listen to music and remember how it was to dance with Marcus. Laying the invoices on the stage, I chose a record, settled it on the turntable, turned on the phonograph, and lowered the needle. At once, the room was filled with the tinny, teasing sounds of Isham Jones and His Orchestra playing “It Had to Be You.” One sliver of a warm and starry night rushed over me as I recalled Marcus humming this one in my ear, his hand resting comfortably in the small of my back as he led me around the dance floor.

  I clenched my hands together and lifted them to my heart. That was where the wound was, raw and tender. Surely I should have known not to bathe the sore in memories; far better to move on and forget. But I wanted to remember, for a little while, until I was absolutely sure he was never coming back.

  It had to be you, wonderful you. . . .

  I shut my eyes but, hearing footsteps, quickly opened them. When I did, Jones was there, his hands tucked casually in the pockets of his pants. The pants were held up by black suspenders over a white shirt. The white cotton fabric only accentuated the white of his hair, the paleness of his skin.

  “Oh, it’s you,” he said. He looked toward the phonograph, raised a colorless brow, and added, “Or should I say, it had to be you?”

  That made me smile. It felt good to smile. “I guess I’m not really supposed to be playing the phonograph, am I?” I said.

  “It’s all right,” he answered with a shrug. “I just wanted to make sure some kids hadn’t gotten in here and decided to tear the place up.”

  “You don’t mind then?”

  “No, I don’t mind.”

  Nobody else gave me a thrill, with all your faults, I love you still. . . .

  “Do you like to dance, Jones?” I asked.

  He briefly stuck out his lower lip. “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know?”

  He shook his head. “I’ve never danced.”

  “Never once?”

  “No.”

  But of course not. Jones wasn’t like other people. He didn’t have the privilege of an ordinary life.

  I lifted the needle off the record but left the turntable spinning. “Uncle Cy asked me to give you these invoices,” I said.

  “Okay. Thanks.” He took them but made no move to leave. He seemed to want to say something. I waited. Finally he said, “I have something for you too.”

  “You do?”

  “Yeah.” He nodded as he dug around in his pants pocket. “Here, you can have it.” He pulled out what looked like a large coin. I held out an open palm and he dropped the coin into it.

  Picking it up, I turned it over a few times. “What is it?”

  “A St. Rita medal. She’s the patron saint of loneliness. I thought you might . . .” His voice trailed off. He shook his head and let out a sigh. “I just thought you might like it.”

  He knew about Marcus. I was embarrassed, but at the same time touched by his gesture. “Thank you, Jones. It’s . . . it’s really very pretty. I’ve never seen anything like it. Are you Catholic?”

  He laughed lightly at that. “No,” he said. “My father was. My mother too. Devout, both of them. I’m—” Another shrug. “Anyway, a patron saint is supposed to protect you from something. Like sickness. Or accident. Or loneliness.”

  “Thank you,” I said again.

  “Yeah, well . . .” He took a step backward. “I guess . . .”

  “Jones?”

  “Yeah?”

  I hesitated, looked at the medal in my hand and back at Jones. “Would you like to dance?”

  His eyes widened slightly and his jaw slowly dropped. “Dance?”

  “Yes. I mean, I can show you, in case you ever . . .”

  “All right.”

  “All right?”

  “Yes. I’d like to try.”

  I slipped the St. Rita medal into my pocket to rest alongside Marlene’s letter. Turning to the phonograph, I lifted the needle and was about to start the music when I heard somebody call my name. “Miss Eve?”

  Morris Tweed stood in the doorway at the other end of the ballroom. My index finger held the needle aloft over the spinning record. “Yes, Morris?” I asked.

  “Begging your pardon for interrupting, Miss Eve, but Mr. Cyrus said I’d find you here.” His black-iris eyes shifted from me to Jones and back again. They were wide enough that those two dark spheres were stranded in a sea of white. I can only imagine what he thought he was interrupting.

  “What is it, Morris?” I asked.

  “Annie says she needs your help in the kitchen right away. One of the cooks done gone home sick just now.”

  I swallowed my disappointment. It tasted bitter. “Tell her I’ll be there in just a moment.”

  “All right, I’ll tell her. Thank you, Miss Eve.”

  He gave a small nod and turned away. When he was gone, I looked at Jones. “Well,” he said, holding up the invoices, “I’ve got work to do anyway.”

  “Yes. I do too, it seems.” I placed the needle on the armrest and turned off the phonograph. “Maybe another time, though?”

  He nodded stiffly. “Maybe.”

  My hand went to my pocket where my fingers found the St. Rita medal. I rubbed it like a worry stone as I made my way back to the kitchen.

  Chapter 22

  The St. Rita medal was oddly comforting to me, even though I wasn’t Catholic and I didn’t know anything about praying to saints. I sent my nightly prayers straight to God and never doubted that He heard me. Daddy would have said the medal was like a lucky rabbit’s foot, mere superstition, which is why I never showed it to him or to Mother. I had no intention of praying to St. Rita or anyone else, though the thought of carrying the medal with me as a sort of seal against loneliness was sorely tempting. But neither did I want to lose it, and in the end I decided to put it in my treasure box for safekeeping. That night, it took its place alongside the elephant from Al Capone and the brass ring from Marcus.

  According to the word about town, Marcus was no longer working at the gas station. Sheriff Wiant had got him a job as an errand boy at City Hall in nearby Lebanon, the county seat, where the sheriff himself worked. I was both glad and relieved. That way, Marcus wouldn’t be involved in Fludd’s bootlegging operation anymore. And that way, I wouldn’t happen to see him should I glance across the street. Unless he came back to me, I didn’t want to see him. If he didn’t come back, I would have the brass ring as a keepsake of my first love.

  In the morning, as I passed by the front desk on my way to the dining room, I was surprised to see Morris Tweed appear through a door behind the desk. It wasn’t Morris that surprised me but the door. It was perpendicular to the desk and hidden by the wall that held the mailboxes and key hooks. Since Morris was carrying a wooden crate, he shut the door with a small tap of his foot. He moved toward the hall that avoided the dining room and led directly to the kitchen.

  “Good morning, Eve,” Uncle Cy greeted me. “Sleep well?”

  “Morning, Uncle Cy,” I said, but I didn’t stay to talk. I hurried after Morris and reached him in the kitchen just as he was settling the crate on the table.

  “Morris, where did you just come from?” I b
lurted.

  He looked at me, brows raised. “Why, I was just bringing up these canned goods from the cellar, Miss Eve.”

  Annie said, “And don’t you leave until you get the top off that crate, you hear, Morris?”

  “I’m doing that right now,” Morris said. Even as he spoke he worked the claw end of a hammer between the box and lid to loosen the nails.

  “But I’ve only seen the outdoor entrance to the cellar,” I went on. “I didn’t know there was a staircase behind the front desk.”

  Morris nodded. He pried the lid off the crate and pulled out a can of baked beans. “Oh yes, Miss Eve. That way when we need something, we don’t have to be going outside when the weather’s bad.”

  At the stove, Annie laughed as she stirred a pot of oatmeal. “What do you find so curious about that, honey?” she asked.

  I shrugged. “Nothing, really. It’s just, I’ve been here awhile now and never realized there was a door behind the desk.”

  “Uh-huh,” Annie said. “A door and a long steep staircase. Right, Morris? He should know. He all the time going up and down those stairs.”

  “That’s right,” Morris said with a nod. As though to emphasize the stairs’ steepness, he took a handkerchief out of his back pocket and ran it along his shimmering brow. “Seems like I’m forever carrying things up and down them stairs. Crates, boxes, bags of flour, all sorts of things.”

  “Eve, honey,” Annie said. She settled the lid on the pot and moved to the Frigidaire, where she pulled out a carton of eggs. “Hester’s still sick today. You going to be able to help me in the kitchen?”

  “Sure, Annie,” I said. “Just let me eat some breakfast with Mother and Daddy first, and then I’ll be back.”

  “All right, honey. Just don’t linger too long over your coffee. We got work to do.”

  “Don’t worry about that, Annie. I don’t even drink coffee. That stuff’s poison!”